One Bullet
by kaydee falls
Summary: What was Spender thinking at the end of "One Son"? Does anything really end?


Title: One Bullet  
AUTHOR: kaydee falls  
CLASSIFICATION: S or V, i dunno, these classifications  
confuse me  
RATING: PG  
SUMMARY: What is Spender thinking at the end of One  
Son? Does anything really end?  
SPOILERS: Two Fathers/One Son.  
DISTRIBUTION: Go ahead. Just tell me first.  
DISCLAIMER: look, Carter created the weasel, not me.  
Let me give the poor character the semblance of a  
brain! I'm not making any money, believe me!  
  
Second attempt at fanfic, I'm still new at this. Talk  
to me. HPTFalien@aol.com for feedback, pleeeeze?  
------------------------------  
I remember a time when I was six, before I knew that  
my mother was an alien abductee and that my father  
was evil incarnate. My father had just bought an  
antique pistol, in a fancy glass case, with one  
bullet on display beside it. He was very proud of  
his purchase, as he showed it to my mother and me.  
He put his hands on my small shoulders and said,  
Jeffrey, this is a piece of history. It is a work  
of art. I want you to remember that. Never touch  
this pistol, or load it, because I assure you, it  
still functions. Just regard it as a beautiful,  
fragile decoration.  
  
And because I was an obedient little boy, I never  
questioned him, nor did I ever take the pistol out  
of its display case. Years later, when he abandoned  
us, when I grew up and left the house, I took it  
with me. But still I never even opened the glass  
box that held the old-fashioned gun.  
  
Until last night.  
  
Last night I opened the case, picked up the pistol,  
took its measure. I toyed with it, aimed it, got a  
feel for it. Then I loaded it with that one bullet.  
I'm an FBI agent, I carry a gun every day, but never  
have I felt such power as I did when I held that  
ancient pistol. It was a special gun, with a single  
special bullet. I couldn't waste this bullet. But  
I knew I would use it, sooner or later. And I knew  
that there was only one person I would use it on.  
  
If I ever have the chance to use it, that is, I  
reflect bitterly. Today may very well be my last one  
alive.  
  
AD Kersh is looking at the pictures taken of the  
burned bodies at the El Rico Air Force base. These  
photos sicken me. The men, they all deserved this  
fate, but not their families. Not their wives and  
children and grandchildren. They -- we -- were always  
kept in the dark. Until it was too late.  
  
It may be too late for them, but not for me. I'm  
getting out of here. I have always hated these  
people; at one point I was in complete denial  
that they even existed. But once I accepted the  
fact of their existence, I began to watch. To  
listen. To learn, silently. Oh, I remained the  
picture of rookie squeamishness and moral  
indignation, but that's all it was. A picture. A  
survival mechanism, if you will. I fooled some of  
them, but not all of them, and today will be the  
ultimate test of my deceptive innocence. Today I  
find out if I fooled the right ones.  
  
Kersh speaks, at last. The way these people died  
...the loss of life here -- it is beyond words. I  
can't imagine how it must be for you, losing your  
mother.  
  
I swallow hard. I really did love my mother, for  
all her failings. If I made mistakes in how I  
showed my affection, then I made mistakes. It makes  
no difference now. Yes, sir, I say, throat dry.  
But that's not why I asked for this meeting.  
  
Why did you ask for it?  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I scan the room.  
Skinner, Mulder, Scully, all here. This is it. I  
can't turn back now. I take a deep breath. Because  
I'm responsible for the deaths of those people at  
the Air Force hangar in no small way. I certainly  
didn't prevent them. I knew what was planned on  
the human side, my mother made me realize the danger,  
but I never did anything. I didn't want to.  
  
I assume, then, you can explain how they died?  
Kersh asks, a little annoyed. I don't blame him.  
Because I have yet to hear any explanation.  
  
You're not going to get an explanation from me, I  
think. I'm breaking free of that now. I want nothing  
more to do with it. It's not my business any more.  
Agent Mulder can explain it, I say, firmly. I think  
Agent Scully, to an extent. They might have even  
prevented what you see in those photos.  
  
Kersh is angry now. Agents Scully and Mulder have been  
suspended by the FBI, he informs me. Gee, tell me  
something I don't know.  
  
Well, no sense delaying now. Just get through this, and  
with a little luck, you're home free. Also my doing.  
And my mistake.  
  
I would ask-- Kersh starts, but I cut him off.  
  
I'd ask, sir, before you tell me that it's not my  
business, -- and it's not, not any more -- that  
you do everything you can to get them back on the  
X-Files. Far worse can happen. And it will.  
  
Yes, Kershy, that's a threat. I know the truth,  
and it's too horrible. I refuse to deal with it  
any more. But Mulder and Scully, they can deal with  
the truth. Better yet, they want to know it. They're  
fools, obviously, but enthusiastic fools. And they  
might be able to expose everything, someday, but I  
can't. I won't.  
  
I stand and turn to go. This apparently doesn't  
please Kersh. Where are you going? he barks.  
  
To pack up my office, I tell him simply, and leave.  
Let Mulder deal with it from now on. I have nothing  
more to say.  
  
But it's not over for me yet. As far as the old  
Consortium is concerned, I could be considered a traitor.  
Or, if the right people bought my idiot act, just a  
pitiable coward. Either way, I know too much.  
  
He's there when I enter the X-Files office. I think I  
knew he would be. I decide to take the offensive stance  
from the start. Get out of here, I snap. He looks up  
from the photo he's studying.  
  
This picture you have, he says calmly. I haven't  
seen it since you were born. You probably don't even  
know who the other man is.  
  
Spiteful old man. Of course I know who the other man  
is. Bill Mulder. I did my research. But it's good  
that he's thinking I'm stupid. Already, I'm on the  
home stretch. All I have to do is maintain appearances.  
I don't care, I spit out, then throw in an extra Get  
out for good measure.  
  
In the voice of one speaking to an infant, he quietly  
tells me, It's Bill Mulder, Fox Mulder's father. Isn't  
that something? I suppress an exasperated sigh. He  
was a good man, a friend of mine. Who betrayed me in  
the end.  
  
Slowly, cold fear begins rising up inside of me. Maybe  
looking dumb isn't enough. I swallow the fear. I know  
more than enough about your past. Enough to hate you.  
Well, that's true, anyway.  
  
He sighs, almost sadly. Your mother was right. I came  
here hoping otherwise. I wonder, distractedly, as he  
pulls out his gun, what he meant by that. I suppose  
I'll never know. Hoping that my son might live to  
honor me. Like Bill Mulder's son.  
  
My father points the gun at my head. For one long moment,  
I stare at it, mute. Then, suddenly, I'm angry. Furious.  
I look up to meet his eyes, defiantly, and don't break  
the gaze. Something flickers in his eyes, for a second.  
Maybe he remembers that he loved me, once. I am his son.  
Nothing can change that.  
  
The sound of the gunshot fills my ears. He turns away,  
tucking his gun back into his coat, and leaves the  
office without a backward glance.  
  
I still stand there, staring straight ahead. Then,  
slowly, I begin to smile, turning my head slightly  
to see the bullet's mark upon the wall behind me. My  
false front, all this time, it worked.  
  
Quickly, quietly, I collect my few belongings in this  
office that belongs to Agent Mulder. Then I leave the  
building for the last time. I know that I'm never coming  
back here.  
  
I've seen these false executions before, but it feels  
odd to be the focus of one. I know that, for all  
practical purposes, Jeffrey Spender is now dead. When  
I get home, I'll find a passport, airline ticket, and  
new identity on my kitchen counter. If I don't follow  
these orders, I will be killed, and for real this time.  
One of my father's men will be at the airport, making  
sure that I am on my flight to wherever. One will be  
on the plane. One will escort me to my new life when I  
land in a yet unknown locale. And for a long time, I  
will be under constant surveillance. If I screw up at  
all, this second chance on life will be abruptly taken  
away from me.  
  
I am going to disappear, but thanks to my years of  
playing the idiot, at least I'm not dead yet. There's  
still time for me to carry out my one final mission. I  
can afford to be cautious. I need to be sure that I can  
get to him again, exact my revenge for the lives he  
mangled. All it takes is one bullet, after all. I can  
wait for years.  
  
At my small apartment, I find the expected items waiting  
for me. For the moment, I don't bother glancing through  
them. I don't care where I'm going. Instead, I go to my  
bedroom, where the antique pistol sits in is glass case.  
Fondly, I pick it up, feeling its weight in my hand. I  
know from experience that C. G. B. Spender allows exactly  
two suitcases to those he helps to disappear. Any more  
will invariably be lost by the airline, or cab, or bus.  
So I will have to make my selections carefully. And the  
beauty in my hand will be the first thing I pack.  
  
Later, leaning back in my chair on the plane to Madrid  
-- first class, of course -- I glance out the window,  
and wave a silent goodbye. Then I settle back, smiling.  
I'm still alive. I'm out of that dark conspiracy,  
hopefully for good. And I still have my beautiful pistol  
with its one bullet. One special bullet, to accomplish  
my sole remaining mission in life.  
  
Bye-bye, Daddy.  
  
Until we meet again.  
---------------------------  
Yay! You stuck with it! Parts of this were awkward for  
me to write, so please send feedback to HPTFalien@aol.com.  
Thank ye kindly.


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